


A Perfect View

by OmeletteAche



Category: A Room With a View - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29660193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmeletteAche/pseuds/OmeletteAche
Summary: Freddy can't get his friend, Floyd, out of his head.
Relationships: Freddy Honeychurch/Mr Floyd





	A Perfect View

There were dozens of unspoken rules between the boys at boarding school governing what you were and weren’t allowed to do -- if you didn’t want to get called “queer” and get a pummeling, that is.  
You were allowed to, of course, playfight with your friends, but not to comfort them if they got hurt. You were allowed to drape yourself over their shoulders, or sit on their lap as a joke. You could tell them you loved them, but only if you shouted it, and you were drunk. But God forbid you call another boy by his first name out loud without a tinge of irony.  
Freddy mused that what he was doing right now, propped up against his friend Floyd’s shins as they lounged on the sports field grass -- Floyd studying for an exam, Freddy pretending to study – well, that was fine. If he took Floyd’s hand, with his long, beautiful fingers, in his, well, that would get tongues a wagging for sure. And if he wanted to bring that hand up to his mouth and plant a kiss every one of those fingers... Freddy shook his head in an effort to dislodge the thought. “You’ll be coming to visit us at home in the hols?” he asked, turning now to face Floyd, squinting as the sun hit him in the eyes.  
Floyd nodded his assent, giving the briefest of glimpses up, providing Freddy the opportunity to glance at him without reproach. Had Floyd always had freckles? It seemed impossible that he had never noticed.  
Floyd jiggled his legs in mock impatience.“Lie back, Honeychurch, your ribs are digging into my knees.” Freddy turned back again, relaxing back against his friend’s shins, enjoying the feeling of the sun shining on his skin.

A month later, Freddy, George, Lucy and Floyd played tennis at the Honeychurch residence. It was a hot and humid day, a combination that had always driven Freddy insane. Something was bothering him about George. Or Lucy. Or was it both? But he was too preoccupied with his own problems to dwell on it. His tennis form was ghastly. He was too far distracted by the way that Floyd looked as he played – the way his body moved un-selfconsciously as he hit the ball, the sheen of sweat on his brow; the way just a strand of hair escaped his pomade and bounced to and fro across his forehead.

Freddy needed a break. After the last match, in which he and George had been trounced in no uncertain terms by Floyd and Lucy, he went inside under the pretext to get some lemonade. Floyd and Lucy were playing a one-on-one tennis match when he came back. Evidently, they hadn’t wanted to wait for him. George stretched out on the grass a few meters away, observing the match. It was strange, Freddy thought, how George could look so darned comfortable wherever he was. Like he belonged there. Freddy went to join him and they sat in companionable silence as they watched the two players. Freddy couldn’t help but notice the way that George watched Lucy; he seemed to be drinking her in, like he was memorising every line of her face in case he never saw her again. The two of them were just out of earshot of the two players, and Freddy, who by his own admission had never been one for mincing his words, blurted out “I think you love my sister.”

“Yes,” replied George sedately, as if he was remarking on the weather. His matter-of-fact reply was so unexpected, and George’s was so straight faced, that Freddy couldn’t help snort in laughter. There really was no other response to give.  
George looked at him in confusion.

“I’m not laughing *at* you, Emerson, it’s only that I thought you might deny it at least, or act embarrassed.”

“What for?” Emerson really was too straight forward for his own good.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Freddy found himself getting exasperated, only because usually, *he* was the straight talker, and now he was having to explain stuffy English propriety to someone else. “ She’s engaged to bloody Cecil. Although I can’t imagine him dueling you to save her honour, or anything like that.”

  
“No, I suppose not.”

  
Freddy found his attention diverted from the conversation for a moment as he watched as Floyd took a break to roll up his sleeves. Was it possible to have perfect forearms? If so, Floyd had them. He must have Freddy's gaze on him, for he looked up and gave him a wink and a lopsided grin.  
Freddy felt blood rush to his face.

  
“And I think you might be in love with Floyd,” continued George, in the same matter of fact of fact way that he had just answered Freddy a few moments before.

  
“Floyd? You’ve gone batty. More batty than usual.” George shrugged in reply, with the look of someone who was open to the idea of being wrong in this instance, but didn't think he was. Freddy sighed, admitting defeat. “But if you were right, what should I do?”

  
“I don’t know. But I think he might love you too.”


End file.
